the pile of wood out in the yard,
he chopped each piece with skill and care,
and left them basking in the sun
and autumn air.
the wood sits loveless in the grass,
a year of seasons passed since then –
the rusting axe, forgotten, she
won’t use again.
as though in wood for fire, she
would waste the mem’ries she could stoke.
and all the burning love they shared
go up in smoke.
… A prompted post.